The Selected Stories of Mavis Gallant

by Mavis Gallant

  The Doctor arrived soon after. He stopped and spoke to Mr. Ibrahim, who was sitting at his workbench making an emerald patch box. The Doctor said to him, “If you give me your social-security papers, I can attend to the medical insurance. It will save you a great deal of trouble.” Mr. Ibrahim answered, “What is social security?” The Doctor examined the patch box and asked Mr. Ibrahim what he earned. Mr. Ibrahim told him, and the Doctor said, “But that is less than the minimum wage.” Mr. Ibrahim said, “What is a minimum wage?” The Doctor turned to Miss Fohrenbach, saying, “We really must try and help them.” Mrs. Ibrahim died. Mr. Ibrahim, when he understood that nothing could be done, lay facedown on the floor, weeping loudly. Then he remembered the rules of hospitality and got up and gave each of the guests a present—for Miss Fohrenbach a belt made of Syriac coins, a copy of which is in the Cairo Museum, and for the Doctor a bracelet of precious metal engraved with pomegranates, about sixteen pomegranates in all, that has lifesaving properties.

  Mrs. Ibrahim asks that her account of the afternoon be registered with the police as the true version and that copies be sent to the Doctor and the social investigator, with a courteous request for peace and silence.

  Mrs. Carlotte Essling, née Holmquist, complains of being haunted by her husband, Professor Augustus Essling, the philosopher and historian. When they were married, the former Miss Holmquist was seventeen. Professor Essling, a widower, had four small children. He explained to Miss Holmquist why he wanted to marry again. He said, “I must have one person, preferably female, on whom I can depend absolutely, who will never betray me even in her thoughts. A disloyal thought revealed, a betrayal even in fantasy, would be enough to destroy me. Knowing that I may rely upon some one person will leave me free to continue my work without anxiety or distraction.” The work was the Professor’s lifelong examination of the philosopher Nicholas de Malebranche, for whom he had named his eldest child. “If I cannot have the unfailing loyalty I have described, I would as soon not marry at all,” the Professor added. He had just begun work on Malebranche and Materialism.

  Mrs. Essling recalls that at seventeen this seemed entirely within her possibilities, and she replied something like “Yes, I see,” or “I quite understand,” or “You needn’t mention it again.”

  Mrs. Essling brought up her husband’s four children and had two more of her own, and died after thirty-six years of marriage at the age of fifty-three. Her husband haunts her with proof of her goodness. He tells people that Mrs. Essling was born an angel, lived like an angel, and is an angel in eternity. Mrs. Essling would like relief from this charge. “Angel” is a loose way of speaking. She is astonished that the Professor cannot be more precise. Angels are created, not born. Nowhere in any written testimony will you find a scrap of proof that angels are “good.” Some are merely messengers; others have a paramilitary function. All are stupid.

  After her death, Mrs. Essling remained in the Fifteenth District. She says she can go nowhere without being accosted by the Professor, who, having completed the last phase of his work Malebranche and Mysticism, roams the streets, looking in shopwindows, eating lunch twice, in two different restaurants, telling his life story to waiters and bus drivers. When he sees Mrs. Essling, he calls out, “There you are!” and “What have you been sent to tell me?” and “Is there a message?” In July, catching sight of her at the open-air fruit market on Dulac Street, the Professor jumped off a bus, upsetting barrows of plums and apricots, waving an umbrella as he ran. Mrs. Essling had to take refuge in the cold-storage room of the central market, where, years ago, after she had ordered twenty pounds of raspberries and currants for making jelly, she was invited by the wholesale fruit dealer, Mr. Lobrano, aged twenty-nine, to spend a holiday with him in a charming southern city whose Mediterranean Baroque churches he described with much delicacy of feeling. Mrs. Essling was too startled to reply. Mistaking her silence, Mr. Lobrano then mentioned a northern city containing a Gothic cathedral. Mrs. Essling said that such a holiday was impossible. Mr. Lobrano asked for one good reason. Mrs. Essling was at that moment four months pregnant with her second child. Three stepchildren waited for her out in the street. A fourth stepchild was at home looking after the baby. Professor Essling, working on his Malebranche and Money, was at home, too, expecting his lunch. Mrs. Essling realized she could not give Mr. Lobrano one good reason. She left the cold-storage room without another word and did not return to it in her lifetime.

  Mrs. Essling would like to be relieved of the Professor’s gratitude. Having lived an exemplary life is one thing; to have it thrown up at one is another. She would like the police to send for Professor Essling and tell him so. She suggests that the police find some method of keeping him off the streets. The police ought to threaten him; frighten him; put the fear of the Devil into him. Philosophy has made him afraid of dying. Remind him about how he avoided writing his Malebranche and Mortality. He is an old man. It should be easy.

  THE PEGNITZ JUNCTION

  She was a bony slow-moving girl from a small bombed Baroque German city, where all that was worthwhile keeping had been rebuilt and which now looked as pink and golden as a pretty child and as new as morning. By the standards of a few years ago she would have been thought plain; she was so tall that she bumped her head getting in and out of airplanes, and in her childhood she had often been told that her feet were like canal boats. Her light hair would have been brown, about the color of brown sugar, if she had not rinsed it in chamomile and whenever possible dried it in sunlight; she could not use a commercial bleach because of some vague promise she had given her late grandmother when she was fourteen.

  She had a striking density of expression in photographs, though she seemed unchanging and passive in life, and had caught sight of her own face looking totally empty-minded when, in fact, her thoughts and feelings were pushing her in some wild direction. She had heard a man say of her that you could leave her in a café for two hours and come back to find she was still smoking the same cigarette. She had done some modeling, not well paid, in middling ready-to-wear centers such as Berlin and Zurich, but now she was trying to be less conscious of her body. She was at one of those turnings in a young life where no one can lead, no one can help, but where someone for the sake of love might follow.

  She lived with her family and was engaged to marry a student of theology, but the person closest to her was Herbert, who was thirty-one, divorced, and who with the help of a housekeeper was bringing up his only child. Unlike the student of theology, he had not put up barriers such as too much talk, self-analysis, or second thoughts. In fact, he tended to limit the number of subjects he would discuss. He had no hold on her mind, and no interest in gaining one. The mind that he constantly took stock of was his child’s; apparently he could not be captivated in the same way by two people at once. He often said he thought he could not live without her, but a few minutes after making such a declaration he seemed unable to remember what he had just said, or to imagine how his voice must have sounded to her.

  After they had known each other about seven months, they came to Paris for a holiday, all three of them—she, Herbert, and the child, who was called little Bert. Christine had just turned twenty-one and considered this voyage a major part of her emancipation. It was during the peak of a heat wave—the warmest July on record since 1873. They remained for a week, in an old hotel that had not been repainted for years because it was marked for demolition. They had two dusty, velvety rooms with a bathroom between. The bathroom was as large as the bedrooms together and had three doors, one of which gave on the passage. Leaving the passage door unlocked soon turned out to be a trick of little Bert’s—an innocent trick; the locks were unlike those he was used to at home and he could not stop fiddling with them. The view from every window was of a church covered with scaffolding from top to bottom, the statue of a cardinal lying on its side, and a chestnut tree sawed in pieces. During the week of their stay nothing moved or was changed until a sign went up saying that a new car park was
to be built under the church and that after its completion the chestnut tree would be replaced by something more suited to the gassy air of cities. The heat at night made sheets, blankets, curtains, blinds, or nightclothes unthinkable: She would lie awake for a long time, with a lock of her hair across her eyes to screen out the glare of a street lamp. Sometimes she woke up to find herself being inspected from head to foot by little Bert, who had crept to their room in search of his father. It was his habit to waken at two, and on finding the bed next to his empty, to come padding along in bare feet by way of the bathroom. Through her hair she would watch him taking a long look at her before he moved round the bed and began whimpering to Herbert that he was all alone and afraid of the dark.

  Herbert would turn at once to little Bert. His deepest feelings were linked to the child. He sometimes could reveal anguish, of which only the child was the source. His first move was always to draw the sheet over Christine, to protect little Bert from the shock of female nakedness. Without a breath of reproach he would collect his dressing gown, glasses, watch, cigarettes, and lighter and take little Bert by the hand.

  “I’m sorry,” quavered the child.

  “It’s all right.”

  Then she would hear the two of them in the bathroom, where little Bert made the longest possible incident out of drinking a glass of water. The next day Herbert could not always recall how he had got from one bed to the other, and once, during the water-drinking rite, he had sleepily stuck a toothbrush in his mouth and tried to light it.

  On their last night in Paris (which little Bert was to interrupt, as he had all the others) Herbert said he would never forget the view from the window or the shabby splendor of the room. “Both rooms,” he corrected; he would not leave out little Bert. That day the Paris airports had gone on strike, which meant they had to leave by train quite early in the morning. Christine woke up alone at five. The others were awake too—she could hear little Bert’s high-pitched chattering—but the bathroom was still empty. She waited a polite minute or so and then began to run her bath. Presently, above the sound of rushing water, she became aware that someone was pounding on the passage door and shouting. She called out, “What?” but before she could make a move, or even think of one, the night porter of the hotel had burst in. He was an old man without a tooth in his head, habitually dressed in trousers too large for him and a pajama top. He opened his mouth and screamed, “Stop the noise! Take all your belongings out of here! I am locking the bathroom—every door!”

  At first, of course, she thought that the man was drunk; then the knowledge came to her—she did not know how, but never questioned it either—that he suffered from a form of epilepsy.

  “It is too late,” he kept repeating. “Too late for noise. Take everything that belongs to you and clear out.”

  He meant too early—Herbert, drawn by the banging and shouting, kept telling him so. Five o’clock was too early to be drawing a bath. The hotel was old and creaky anyway, and when you turned the taps it sounded as though fifty plumbers were pounding on the pipes. That was all Herbert had to say. He really seemed extraordinarily calm, picking up toothbrushes and jars and tubes without standing his ground for a second. It was as if he were under arrest, or as though the porter’s old pajama top masked his badge of office, his secret credentials. The look on Herbert’s face was abstract and soft, as if he had already lived this, or always had thought that he might.

  The scented tub no one would ever use steamed gently; the porter pulled the stopper, finally, to make sure. She said, “You are going to be in trouble over this.”

  “Never mind,” said Herbert. He did not want any unpleasantness in France.

  She held her white toweling robe closed at the throat and with the other hand swept back her long hair. Without asking her opinion, Herbert put everything back in her dressing case and snapped it shut. She said to the porter in a low voice, “You filthy little swine of a dog of a bully.”

  Herbert’s child looked up at their dazed, wild faces. It was happening in French; he would never know what had been said that morning. He hugged a large bath sponge to his chest.

  “The sponge isn’t ours,” said Herbert, as though it mattered.

  “Yes. It’s mine.”

  “I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Its name is Bruno,” said little Bert.

  Unshaven, wearing a rather short dressing gown and glasses that sat crookedly, Herbert seemed unprepared to deal with sponges. He had let all three of them be pushed along to Christine’s room and suffered the door to be padlocked behind him. “We shall never come to this hotel again,” he remarked. Was that all? No, more: “And I intend to write to the Guide Michelin and the Tourist Office.”

  But the porter had left them. His answer came back from the passage: “Dirty Boches, you spoiled my holiday in Bulgaria. Everywhere I looked I saw Germans. The year before in Majorca. The same thing. Germans, Germans.”

  Through tears she did not wish the child to observe, Christine stared at larches pressing against the frame of the window. They had the look they often have, of seeming to be wringing wet. She noticed every detail of their bedraggled branches and red cones. The sky behind them was too bright for comfort. She took a step nearer and the larches were not there. They belonged to her school days and to mountain holidays with a score of little girls—a long time ago now.

  Herbert did not enlarge on the incident, perhaps for the sake of little Bert. He said only that the porter had behaved strangely and that he really would write to the Guide Michelin. Sometimes Herbert meant more than he said; if so, the porter might have something to fear. She began to pack, rolling her things up with none of the meticulous folding and pleating of a week ago, when she had been preparing to come here with her lover. She buckled the lightest of sandals on her feet and tied her hair low on her neck, using a scarf for a ribbon. She had already shed her robe and pulled on a sleeveless dress. Herbert kept little Bert’s head turned the other way, though the child had certainly seen all he wanted to night after night.

  Little Bert would have breakfast on the French train, said Herbert, to distract him. He had never done that before.

  “I have never been on a train” was the reply.

  “It will be an exciting experience,” said Herbert; like most parents, he was firm about pleasure. He promised to show little Bert a two-star restaurant at the Gare de l’Est. That would be fun. The entire journey, counting a stopover in Strasbourg and a change of trains, would take no more than twelve hours or so; this was fast, as trains go, but it might seem like a long day to a child. He was counting on little Bert’s cooperation, Herbert concluded somberly.

  After a pause, during which little Bert began to fidget and talk to his bath sponge, Herbert came back to the subject of food. At Strasbourg they would have time for a quick lunch, and little Bert had better eat his …

  “Plum tart,” said little Bert. He was a child who had to be coaxed to eat at every meal, yet who always managed to smell of food, most often of bread and butter.

  … because the German train would not have a restaurant car, Herbert went on calmly. His actual words were, “Because there will be no facilities for eating on the second transport.”

  Christine thought that Herbert’s information left out a great deal. Little Bert did not know what a two-star restaurant was, and would certainly have refused every dish set before him had he been taken to one. Also, the appalling schedule Herbert had just described meant that the boy would have nothing to eat or drink from about eleven in the morning until past his bedtime. She suggested they buy a picnic lunch and a bottle of mineral water before leaving. Her impression of the week just past was that little Bert had to be fed water all day and part of the night. But Herbert said no, that the smell of food on trains made him—Herbert—feel sick. It was the thing he hated most in the world, next to singing. The train would be staffed with vendors of sandwiches and milk and whatever little Bert wanted. Herbert did not foresee any food or drink p
roblem across the Rhine.

  Well, that was settled, though leaving early had destroyed Herbert’s plans for exposing the Louvre to little Bert and finding out what he had to say about the Postal Museum. “Too bad,” said Herbert.

  “Yes, too bad.” She knew now that there had been only one purpose to this holiday: to see how she got along with little Bert.

  Herbert let the child carry the sponge to the station, hoping he would forget it on the way. But he continued to address it as “Bruno” and held it up to their taxi window to see Paris going by.

  “The porter seemed drugged,” said Herbert. “There was something hysterical, irrational. What did he mean by ‘too late’? He meant ‘too early’!”

  “He was playing,” said little Bert, who had the high, impudent voice of the spoiled favorite. “He wanted you to play too.”

  Herbert smiled. “Grown people don’t play that way,” he said. “They mean what they say.” His scruples made him add, “Sometimes.” Then, so that little Bert would not be confused, he said, “I mean what I say.” To prove it he began looking for the two-star restaurant as soon as they had reached the station. He looked right and left and up at a bronze plaque on the wall. The plaque commemorated a time of ancient misery, so ancient that two of the three travelers had not been born then, and Herbert, the eldest, had been about the age of little Bert. An instinct made him turn little Bert’s head the other way, though the child could barely read in German, let alone French.